


A Descent Into Purgatory (1895)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [153]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Birds, Coal Mining, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 13:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11418570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A ghastly case in which Watson once more comes close to losing the man he loves but is, for once, very fortunate.Or is he?





	A Descent Into Purgatory (1895)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princessgolux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessgolux/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer'.

That summer of the year 'Ninety-Five, I had a new book out featuring a collection of Sherlock’s cases and, very reluctantly, I had bowed to pressure from my erstwhile publishers Brett, Burke & Hardwicke to attend two book-signing sessions at Hatchard’s in Piccadilly (they had promised a sizeable donation to my friend's Boys' Home, otherwise I would have flatly refused). In addition, I had a general hatred of publicity, but I did feel that I owed my publishers something for letting me bring Sherlock’s fame to an ever wider audience, as his books were now selling well across the Empire. Though when they suggested a book tour around the British Isles, I very firmly put my foot down! Whoever had thought that I would set myself up for these conferences - 'cons', the representative of the publishers had actually called them! - wanted seeing to!

I mention this because of a small incident that arose from the first of the two book-signing sessions. My audience (mostly female for reasons that, I blush to admit, escaped me at the time) were lined up with their books to be signed, and all went well until one of the ladies asked me a question:

“Those little eccentricities of his”, she whispered. “The staring, the pipe, the head-tilting – do they not drive you around the bend?”

I looked at her in surprise.

“Of course not!” I almost snapped. “That is just who he is. Sherlock without all those things just would not be Sherlock!”

She stared at me in shock.

“You called him Sherlock!” she whispered, as if I had just revealed to her the location of the Holy Grail. “You _never_ call him Sherlock in your books!”

This was true. In my original stories, published for a Victorian audience, the idea of using someone's first name in literature would, unlike today, have seemed quite disrespectful. And I had been extremely careful in my previous stories to make sure that everyone viewed our relationship as just two gentlemen friends who happened to room together. Yet the looks that I was getting from the ladies in the queue suggested that they had either seen through that subterfuge, or that they wished us closer than I had stated. If only they knew; Sherlock and I could not get any closer!

It was the heat from the lights that was making me blush. Yes it was!

+~+~+

The conversation stuck in my memory like a burr, and I found it difficult to shake it off. It was still there two days later when Sherlock did something that was rather odd, even for him.

The summer of that year had thus far been warm but with a pleasant cooling breeze most days, and I had not gone into the surgery yet that week because the signing (ordeal) had been on a Monday. Sherlock had been gazing out of the window for some little time when he suddenly strode across to the pile of old newspapers we kept for the fire, picked one up and laid it flat on the table, and wrote several words on it in his fountain-pen before striding back to the window and taping the paper to it. I stared in astonishment.

“Doubtless you think me mad, doctor”, he said with a chuckle, “but that man opposite has been staring at this house for over half an hour, and has twice started across the road only to draw back. He may be a potential client, but only if we can actually get him through the door!”

“Ah”, I said. “You wrote him a note telling him to come in.”

“Oh doctor, your detective powers _amaze_ me!” he said, holding his arm melodramatically to his head as if about to swoon. I looked around, but unfortunately there was nothing at hand to throw at him, so I settled for a scowl. He sniggered at me, which did not help matters.

Sure enough, some few moments later there was the distinctive sound of Mrs. Singer opening the door. She had married Mr. Singer at the start of the month, and as well as Roadie the new cat – which, to my joy, did indeed not shed - Sherlock had presented them with a week’s honeymoon in Torquay, since our landlady had always loved the English Riviera. She gave our visitor a sharp look – he had obviously done his best, but he was clearly very dirty – before announcing him as ‘Mr. James Banks’, with a second look that made it clear what would happen if he made a mess. The man swallowed nervously.

“Pray take a seat, Mr. Banks”, Sherlock said. “I appreciate that this is not your usual environment, but there are fewer dangers here than in the years that you have obviously spent underground.”

The man visibly baulked.

“Sir!” he gasped.

“Come, come”, Sherlock said gently. “The ingrained dirt could come from any labouring post, but the slight stoop and the rasped breathing point to time spent underground. Yet it is less than might be expected for a man of your age, so you have not been there of late.”

The man nodded, then hesitated. He looked ready to bolt, I thought.

“You would not be here today if you did not think that there was a chance of me taking your case”, Sherlock pressed. “Relax. You have got as far as the famous fireside chair which, considering the inordinately long period of time that you dallied outside, is a major achievement. At least let us know the reason for your visit.”

The man seemed to sag, but finally spoke.

“I know you take on all sorts of cases, sirs”, he said (I felt a warm feeling at the plural), “but this is…. difficult. I fear for my son, and.... I think that he may die very soon.”

He ground to a halt and looked at us almost pleadingly. Sherlock sighed. It was going to be one of Those Interviews.

“Your son is a miner?” he asked.

“Yes…. no…. at least not yet….”

It was akin to pulling teeth. Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and lifted the man’s downturned face, staring straight into his eyes.

“The facts, sir”, he said in a commanding voice. “ _All_ the facts. Starting with where you work, please.”

“At the Purgatory Colliery near Reculver, in Kent, sir”, he said, visibly pulling himself together. “I’m a mining engineer.”

“You think that your son may be in danger”, Sherlock mused. “You work in a field of logic, so what facts or observations have led you to that conclusion?”

“I want Eddie to become an engineer above ground”, the man said. “But he insists on doing six months down the mines first before he’ll do that, or even consider anything else.”

“Do you not think that the experience alone might deter him?” I asked. Our guest shook his head.

“He is very determined”, he said. “Takes after his late mother in that. He made me promise that if he could stick it out, I would let him stay down there as an on-site engineer. But sirs…. I am scared.”

Sherlock poured the man a large whisky, and gave it to him, watching as he downed it on one gulp. He waited until the man had finished before speaking.

“You, sir, are an engineer”, he said patiently. “If you have some knowledge as to something that threatens your son’s life, then say so, and say it now.”

“That damn Patrick Wilson!”

+~+~+

We both stared at him, but the effort that the man had visibly had to make just to get that name out seemed to have drained him. Sherlock poured him another whisky, and he sipped it this time.

“Who is this 'Mr. Patrick Wilson'?” Sherlock asked.

“Until two months ago, the mine was owned by Lord Falconhurst”, our guest said. “I won’t say he was a good employer; harsh but fair was his style. He drove a hard deal with the union, but once it was agreed, he stuck to it, unlike some in our trade. He sold a half-share in the mine two months back, and things in Purgatory have been living down to its name ever since.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“Mr. Wilson made his fortune bringing back rare birds from foreign parts”, our guest said, “and selling them to zoos and rich folks. The only ones he kept were regular canaries because that's his hobby; he sold some to the mine, and that was how he got linked to us.”

“Why did Lord Falconhurst sell to him?” I asked. “Was he in financial difficulties?”

“Not such as you mean, sir”, our guest said. “Two months ago we found a rich new seam that stretches out under where the North Sea meets Old Father Thames. These underwater seams are tricky however, and expensive to mine. Mr. Wilson was brought in to provide the extra money.”

“But things have been going wrong since he arrived on the scene”, Sherlock said. “Exactly what things, pray?”

“The week after he came to look at the workings, seven of the men collapsed due to fumes, and had to be carried out”, our guest said. “And last month the same thing happened again, and we nearly lost two men due to poisoning.”

“Surely the canaries would have stopped singing?” I asked. “That is what they are for, is it not?”

Our guest nodded. 

“I don't get why”, he said, frowning. “Mr. Wilson suggested that it may be a new type of gas, one that the birds are somehow immune to. He tried a different breed of canary afterwards, and that seemed to work when they stopped for a leak only last week.”

Sherlock say back and surveyed our guest, who flinched under his examination.

“You have a hunch”, Sherlock said. “Whatever the scientific explanation is for those things, something here strikes you as wrong, and it centres on Mr. Patrick Wilson. When does your son start down the mine?”

“In three weeks’ time, sir.”

“Then we must solve this case in three weeks”, Sherlock said. “I do have an idea as to what the correct solution may be, but proving it will be another matter entirely. If you leave your address with the good doctor, we will send you a telegram should there be any developments.”

“You will take the case?” the man said, looking almost incredulous.

“Your son’s life may indeed be in danger”, Sherlock said. “Yes, we will take the case. It may even involve a trip to the Garden of England itself, and a descent into Purgatory!”

I know hindsight is always perfect, but I most definitely had a bad feeling about the name of that mine. One which was to prove all too accurate.

+~+~+

I fully expected Sherlock to ask me to accompany him to Kent within the next few days, but to my surprise he spent the following week mostly at the library, researching something. In a way it was fortunate; one of my more important clients, Lady Mason, was still expecting her first grandchild, and her daughter seemed to be set on achieving an elephantine pregnancy, now some way into its tenth month. The young lady's health was fragile in the extreme, and I had long ago decided that, barring an emergency, we could not bring her child into the world any sooner than it was ready. I could not leave the capital until it finally put in an appearance, and it was annoying.

Also annoying was the arrival of Sherlock's brother Bacchus one morning, even if he did bring some information that my friend had requested. I fully expected him to comment on my recent feline problems with Black Peter, but Sherlock must not have said anything to him about them. 

“What did you want to find out from Bacchus?” I asked after the lounge-lizard had thankfully departed.

“Mr. Patrick Wilson's recent travel arrangements”, he said. “I wished to know which countries he had visited in pursuit of his avian collection. I was particularly interested to find that he went to central southern Africa, or Rhodesia as it has now become.”

“Why so?” I asked.

“Because that was where I hoped he would have gone”, he said. 

We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of a telegram. I read it, and sighed in relief.

“Mrs. Broadhurst's baby has _finally_ decided that it is ready to grace the world with its presence!” I announced. “And only three and a half weeks late! I must go at once.”

“I shall not go down to Kent until you are returned, then”, he said.

+~+~+

Unfortunately, this turned out to be easier said than done. Having waited nearly a month longer than usual, the new Master Broadhurst made a most difficult entrance into the world, not helped by his being nearly nine pounds when he eventually arrived. His mother lost a lot of blood in the process, and I felt compelled to remain at the hospital, or at least on call, until she was out of danger. Fortunately the baby itself was fine, and his grandmother was pleased with my prompt attendance, but again I could not leave London, whilst Sherlock's three weeks were rapidly running out. Even as a doctor, there was little I could actually do except that my presence reassured the patient, who just needed copious amounts of both time and rest to recover from her ordeal. It was all incredibly vexing. 

It was a Friday when we received a telegram from Mr. Banks, reminding us that his son was due to start down the mine the following Tuesday. That same day Mrs. Broadhurst suffered a fall when she tried to walk a short distance from her hospital bed, and I informed Lady Mason that her daughter would do better in her own home if she could be guaranteed complete bed-rest. She was duly moved to her home on Saturday, and I spent most of Sunday with her.

“I shall have to go down to Kent tomorrow”, Sherlock told me that day. “I have my suspicions, and if I can check something down there, I should be able to complete the case.”

“What time do you leave?” I asked. “I have promised to call in on Lady Mason tomorrow and travel with her to see her daughter, but if all is well I can travel on with you.”

“And if it is not, young Mr. Banks will go down the mine the next day”, Sherlock said with a sigh. “We cannot risk it. I shall take the morning train from Victoria, and since your patient resides in Aldwych, you can take a train from Charing Cross if she only needs you for a short time. If I get out at Sturry and you at Herne Bay, you may even beat me there. But we must go tomorrow, or at least I must.”

He did not mention it to me, but my increasing forebodings about this case down the eerily-named mine led me that night to decide to take my gun with me the next day. After all, I told myself, it was not as if I had some handy guardian angel around to whom I could entrust the little scruffian every time that he was out of my sight.

I would have cause to remember that particular thought one day.

+~+~+

I was not lucky the next day. Lady Mason kept me waiting at her house for what seemed like an eternity, and when we finally reached her daughter's house, the silly woman had strained herself by trying to walk again. I threatened her with a return to hospital and told her that she might even endanger her chance of any future children (mostly untrue, but sometimes doctors have to stretch the truth in order to drive the message home). I also called in briefly on young Master Broadhurst, who was showing a lot more sense than either of his relatives and sleeping soundly.

My chances of making it to Reculver before Sherlock disappeared completely when heavy traffic meant that I missed the Thanet train by ten minutes. Fortunately – my one break of the day – there was a Dover train in half an hour, which meant that I could take a cab from Canterbury. That would be expensive, but I had a growing feeling of unease about allowing Sherlock to start out alone, and I would not be happy until I caught him up. 

My good luck ended at Faversham when our train came to a stop and, to my impotent fury, did not restart. After a frustrating wait, we were informed that the engine had failed, and we would have to wait for the next train. I stared up at the Heavens and had more than one uncharitable thought in that direction. I would have to get a carriage all the way to Reculver from here – nearly twenty miles – or risk waiting for the next Thanet train for over another hour. This was absolutely....

“Doctor Watson?”

I looked up at my name. A goods train was standing across the other side of the platform I was on, and the man who had spoken was the guard, a shortish man of about my age with wispy blond hair.

“Bert West”, the man grinned. “You delivered my youngest in Whitechapel, nearly twenty years back.”

Of course I did not remember the man, but I smiled in acknowledgement.

“Where are you headed?” he asked. 

“I was trying to get to a place called Reculver”, I said, “although the nearest station is Herne Bay. As you can see, my train gave up on me.”

He grinned.

“Hop aboard, then.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“It's no problem”, he said cheerily. “The line goes right by there. I'll pop and tell Jeff to stop there and let you off.”

I could hardly believe my change of luck. And as events much later in my life would show, I was right to be so cynical.

+~+~+

The goods train was, of course, not as fast as a passenger one, but it made up for that by not stopping at any of the stations that we chuffed through, and mercifully there were no signals to delay us. We finally drew to a halt just before a brick over-bridge.

“You'll have to scamper up to the road”, the guard said, pointing to a barely-discernible path, “and then go left. The mine's less than a mile on; you can see the goods line into it ahead of us. You'll get there quicker via the road if you want the mine entrance, though. Good hunting, doctor!”

I thanked him profusely, and in my haste forgot even to pay him for his generosity. He had been right; from the roadway I could see the junction over which my train was now passing, and the outlying buildings of the mine. I hurried onwards. 

Finally I was there, and to my relief I found Mr. James Banks smoking a cigarette outside the main building, looking up in surprise at my unusual arrival. I hurried over to him.

“Where is Sherlock?” I asked urgently.

“He just went to examine the bird-cages”, the man said, clearly surprised by my haste. “Is something wrong?”

“Take me to him!” I ordered. I probably had no right to order him about in this way, but I was past caring. Every instinct in me was telling me that something was terribly wrong – and when two men emerged coughing from the mine, that instinct became certainty.

“Sherlock!” I yelled, and started towards where the men had emerged from. Mr. Banks reached out to try to stop me, but I wrenched myself free.

“Doctor, there's gas down there!” he yelled. “It's dangerous!”

Although nothing was going to stop me, I had just about enough sense left to take out a handkerchief and hold it to my mouth. Thankfully the bird-cages lay just inside the mine-entrance from which more men were now staggering. And next to the cage, a familiar long-coated figure lay slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Sherlock!” I yelled again, and dropped the handkerchief to grab for him. I could feel the noxious fumes, though they were mercifully faint as I was still within sight of the entrance. Less mercifully, my friend was a dead weight. 

I was about to try to pick him up when I heard something move behind me. I suppose that I should have assumed it was one of the men escaping from the mine, but some inner instinct warned me otherwise, and I moved quickly to one side. Just as well, as a blow from some heavy object glanced off my arm, clearly having been aimed at my head. I let Sherlock fall, much as it hurt me to do, and spun round. A man with manic eyes wielding a large iron bar was glaring at me, and was clearly preparing to finish me off. I did not hesitate, but pulled my gun from my pocket and shot him at nearly point blank range, thinking a fraction of a second too late that the explosion of a gunshot might incite the gas around me. He stared at me in shock for what seemed like an eternity, then slowly crumpled to the floor.

“John?”

The sound of my friend's gasping brought me back to reality, and I realized we were both still in a mine which was leaking poisonous fumes, and which could still end us if I did not get my act together. I hoisted Sherlock's thin frame – the man never ate enough, and for once I was glad of it – then gripped him tight and made my way out of the mine, my eyes streaming and my throat aching, but happy in my heart.

My friend was safe.

+~+~+

The thirty-one and a half minutes that it took Sherlock to regain full consciousness was one of the longest periods of my life, even though I was distracted by helping to care for the other men who had come up. By the Grace of God there were no fatalities except for the man I had shot who, as I had guessed, turned out to be Mr. Patrick Wilson. Explanations for his actions would have to wait for my friend's recovery, as would everything else.

Sherlock finally came round, and I could hardly contain my relief. He was his usual adorably confused self, just like he was most mornings before his first cup of coffee, and I had to tell him everything that had happened. The only other casualty, I found out, had been his long-coat; apparently I had cut myself whilst rushing into the mine, and there was a bloody hand-print on it from where I had first grabbed him. I had not even noticed the blood loss.

“I am sorry”, I said. “I am sure it will wash out.”

He laughed, then coughed at the effort.

“I have you to thank for my life”, he said, his eyes seeming even bluer than usual. “You dragged me out of Purgatory. Thank you.”

“All part of the service”, I said dismissively, feeling a little embarrassed by his praise. His grip on my arm suddenly tightened.

“I mean it”, he said. “Those books of yours do you a disservice, John. I am nothing without you.”

Damn it, I was getting emotional!

“When you feel well enough, Lord Falconhurst is here”, I said, desperate to change the subject. “He has closed the mine for the day, but I am guessing that he would quite welcome an explanation as to why I just slew his business partner.”

“Shot in self-defence”, Sherlock said firmly. “You are not a killer, John. You never could be. Yes, I feel better now. If you could fetch Mr. Banks, then get me a drink of water – or better still, a coffee - I will attend them both shortly.”

I smiled at him, and went to do his bidding.

+~+~+

The four of us were sat in Mr. Banks' small office. Lord Falconhurst was younger than I had expected, a pale blond fellow in his early forties, who seemed bewildered at the dramatic turn of events.

“What I want to know”, Mr. Banks said, “is why those damn birds didn't sing. That's what canaries do, for Heaven's sake!”

Sherlock sipped his water.

“That is indeed true”, he said. “Except that the birds in those cages are not canaries.”

“What do you mean?” Lord Falconhurst asked. Sherlock turned to him.

“When Mr. Wilson learnt that you were looking for backers to fund the exploration of a new underwater seam”, he said, “he knew from his own experience that there was a risk of poison gas pockets. Amongst his many travels prior to becoming your partner was a trip out to what is now Rhodesia, in Africa. In the heart of the Dark Continent there are doubtless many strange species still yet to be discovered, but one of the ones that he fetched back from there is the set of creatures in those cages in your mine, sir. And although they may look similar, they are not canaries.”

“What are they, then?” the nobleman asked.

“The native word is _ulumbaju_ , which translates loosely as 'swamp-callers'” Sherlock said. “Nature has endowed these birds with the ability to survive even in the noxious air surrounding what we in the developed world call, rather pathetically in my humble opinion, 'hot springs'. Like canaries, the birds can sing, but their songs are designed primarily to mimic those of certain insects that they prey on. Their victims approach, thinking to find a mate, then fall victim to the noxious gases. Fortunately for Mr. Wilson, the swamp-callers are not fussy eaters, so they can survive on a diet of British insects, or even bird-food at a pinch.”

“I do not see it”, the nobleman said.

“When your men accidentally exposed a pocket of poison gas, a normal canary would detect it first and stop singing, dying soon after”, Sherlock explained. “A swamp-caller, on the other hand, would simply carry on singing. As your bird supplier, he would change to normal canaries occasionally, so you might just think yourself unlucky. It was his good fortune that the birds resemble canaries, but according to research that I carried out at my local library, there are seventeen small but notable differences between the species.”

He turned to me, and looked almost apologetic.

“I had assumed that you were held back for the whole day, so I decided to check the birds for myself”, he said, looking almost as if he thought I would reprimand him for such an action. “I could not know that Mr. Wilson himself happened to be testing birds further into the mine. Presumably he came back and worked out what I was doing, then struck me from behind.”

“The bastard!” I said fervently. “I am glad that I shot him!”

“Your new seam should be able to be safely developed, provided you use canaries this time”, Sherlock told Lord Falconhurst. “Though perhaps a more rigorous examination of future business partners may be in order.”

The nobleman blushed at the gentle reprimand. 

+~+~+

We had to wait for the local policeman to come and take my statement, but fortunately Mr. Banks had witnessed the whole thing, and the constable was sure that there would be no difficulties. Sherlock and I were able to travel back, he insisting on paying for my ticket to go with him despite the fact I had a return on the Chatham Line. I did not need much persuading, especially as I still felt angry at myself for letting him get into danger like this.

I do not know why, but it was not until we safely back in the sanctuary of Baker Street that it truly hit me. I had nearly lost him. Yet again. I let out a guttural cry and sank to the couch, curling up into myself.

“John”, he said anxiously. “What is it?”

I turned an agonized face up to him.

“I nearly lost you!” I bit out, not knowing whether to be angry with him or hug him. “I cannot....”

I curled back into myself, trying not to cry. Grown men did not cry. I felt him sit down next to me on the couch, and lay a gentle hand on the side of my head.

“John”, he said gently, “this is my life... our lives. You know that the prospect of my making old bones has never been good....”

I let out a sob at that. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I was past caring. 

“I need you!” I said, almost bitterly. “Need you inside me, Sherlock. Now.”

He hesitated only briefly before gently helping me to my feet and across the room to his door. The gentle, almost tender way he undressed me was a further overload to my strained emotions, and I sniffed as he removed my clothing.

“I want you to undress me as well”, he said, helping me back up off the bed and standing before me. I nodded dumbly, and set to work, although his gentle running of a finger around my chin nearly broke me again. I loved this man so much, and once again the Fates had nearly taken him from me.

Finally I was done, and he guided me gently back onto his bed, He was often tender in our couplings, but I do not think I had ever known him this gentle, almost as if he was afraid he would break me. Part of me wanted him to take me fast and rough, but this slow and sensual lovemaking was wonderful in its way, and I relaxed into the bed, barely even feeling it as he gently eased me open. I even almost missed feeling him enter me, so blissed out by his careful touches. This was not our usual race to orgasm or even the frantic coupling whilst denying ourselves that release; this was something deeper and, in a strange way, more erotic. 

He was finally fully in, and leaned forward to gently place his chest against mine, whispering how much he loved me. I felt the last vestiges of stress leaving me, and the last thing that I remembered was his kissing me gently, and promising that he would never leave me. 

+~+~+

It took me some time to notice Mrs. Singer's knowing smirk when she brought up breakfast the following morning, and only when I looked in the mirror later on did I spot it. A love-bite the size of Cornwall, way above my collar! The bastard!

There was also a rather unusual postscriptum to this case. I wrote to the railway company commending the actions of Mr. Albert West, the guard on the goods train whose kindness had enabled me to reach Sherlock in time. They wrote back that the guard on that particular train had been a Mr. Frederick Leyton, who did not match the description that I had provided at all, and that they had no Mr. Albert West working for their company. Strange.

+~+~+

Trains again feature in our next case, when a dead man stands at a railway station, an unwelcome face from the past re-appears, the steamer “Friesland” vanishes - and the insufferable Mr. Bacchus Holmes once again goes a step too far.


End file.
